To Try
by outofthesun
Summary: Not many people know that Jim Kirk wasn't the only one who suffered through a famine. Joanna McCoy did, too. Oneshot, T for dark themes.


At first, they try.

The government tries to make the food go round, tries to organise medical aid, tries to get the able-bodied to aid the weak, to help the children.

At first, she tries.

She tries in the hospital, tries to save dying kids as they lie in her arms and tries to find more saline where there is none.

At first, he tries.

He tries to hang on, he tries to stay alive, tries to cling to life like someone on the edge of a cliff, or falling off of a broken bridge.

They all try. At first.

But it isn't enough.

Slowly but surely, as sure as land is to water and earth is to sky, they start to slip away. Glazed, cynical. Gnawing hunger becomes a part of them, and it is insidious – it robs them of their power, her of her caring nature, and ultimately, him of life. She and he were together, and the famine says no and tears them apart. The fates weep as bit by bit her eyes lose all emotion in time with his decline. When it finally comes, she's a shell, and he, nothing but another of the faceless people on a list.

The death is quiet, peaceful, and it is not enough. People are lost in droves; all of her time at the hospital is spent injecting ever-decreasing amounts of sedatives into people's veins while her face becomes bonier and more expressionless as each day passes in the same cloudy, horrible haze as the last.

She finds herself looking at the stars and asking why, at night when she can't sleep. She begs for help and for forgiveness, when she can summon up the emotion. But those times become fewer and fewer – soon, the quiet time is lost, and she moves like an android among the dead and the dying. Death becomes the better option – the hunger _burns _and still she's handing her bread to children in a last ditch attempt to prove she cares.

"Take it, Sirik. Take it." She knows little Sirik from school, faintly reminisces as she holds out the tiny slice. Cerberus is home to a fair few half Vulcans, due to its 'gifted' education track – the one she's on – and she barely remembers his name. Sirik stares at her with hauntingly human blue eyes and finally, nods, scarpering away into the dark.

The old Joanna would have done it without thinking, but starvation twists her mind; she sees shadows where there are none and sinks further and further away until they tell her they're out of supplies. There's nothing more to be done except wait, wait for help that they think will never come. They don't have to tell her that. She knows.

She finds a lonely little patch of beach by the coast. The sort of place where families might have picnicked – there's patches of wild flowers interwoven into the sand and the tide moves in and out. Steady. Constant. Unconsciously, she thinks it's a good place to die. Her ribs grow more prominent with every passing day as she watches the sky for any sign of help, any sign of hope. But she doesn't really care anymore, doesn't really try – none of them do. They don't, she doesn't, and he can't.

Whether she cares enough or not, the fates are sated. Help arrives in the form of the _Enterprise _and a few other smaller ships. By this point, the news doesn't register – Joanna drifts in and out of consciousness on her beach and gives up. Her eyes are sunken and there is nothing to her but bones.

_Bones… _oh, the irony.

They find her eventually, unable to do anything but blink. They recognise her and call her name and eventually carry her to her father like some sort of funeral procession, except she's not dead in body. She doesn't have the energy to protest, but protest she would if it were possible. The ghosts of the dead are shadowing her every step and all she wants is to join them.

Her father is still able to try. At first, he scolds.

"Stop takin' your darn IV out! You need that saline, goddamnit. When did you get so teenagery? Nearly as bad as Jim." _Jim doesn't have a year of medical school under his belt. Jim can't fight you the way I can._

Then, he reassures.

"It's goin' to be all right. I'm on leave for a couple months – you'll stay with me for a little while, see your family… it's goin' to get better, I promise." _It won't. They're gone. Don't lie to me! Can't you see I can see right through it, you stupid old man!_

And finally, he pleads.

"Leave your IV in, darlin', please. Eat something. A bit of toast? Some bread and butter? What do you need, sweetheart?" _You can't give me what I need. You can try to make me well again, but I'll claw for every inch, I'll fight you at every corner, father or not._

Her heart isn't sweet. It's bitter and tainted and god knows, her innocence is lost.

She makes her first sound in weeks when the _Enterprise _goes to warp, leaving Cerberus and the famine and everything behind.

The screaming doesn't stop until they sedate her.

* * *

The late summer Georgia air is warm and a little musty. Just the way she remembers it, like the way she remembers the old oak and her horse. Her father's never far away; she catches him watching her out of windows, or just around corners. Most days, she just rides. Not any great distances, but enough. Horses are simple, uncomplicated creatures, and after a few minutes, Benny (don't judge, she was five at the time) remembers the feeling of her on his back and responds perfectly to her signals as they while away the days going around in circles.

Grandma McCoy visits. She isn't sure at first whether her father has said anything, but when her grandmother starts happily chattering about strawberry cake and _are you doing well in school, dear? _she knows he hasn't, and she's grateful. _All skin and bones, Leonard, you ought to feed her up a bit! _They exchange glances, and she sees her father's eyes full of something unidentifiable – something she won't be able to identify until years later, when her own daughter is ill with the measles, but for now she's oblivious to his own torment. After a few days, her grandmother leaves again, and she goes back to her routine of sleep-ride-sleep.

Her old friends visit – they look so young, though they're all taller and wider and perhaps a little wiser. She tries hard to reconnect with them, but realises partway through the day that it won't work. She's seen far too much and they won't understand that. Their conversations are light and meaningless – _you should see our homeroom teacher, Jo, he's such a git _and _what's university like? _She responds politely enough, but it's clear her mind's on other things and cuts the visit short in the end. They don't seem to mind.

Eating remains a point of contention.

"Thank you for not telling them." she says stiffly.

"I didn't think you'd want them to know." he pauses. "Jo, there's a month of summer left. In September, you need to go back to medical school. I've spoken to a few universities – gotten a few offers – if you're interested." Another pause. "Eat your peas."

"You think I should forget." It's a statement. Jo looks up from pushing her chicken around the plate and offers her father a stony look.

"Yes," he sighs, running a tanned hand through dark hair. "Yes, I do. Jo, you're seventeen. You have your whole life ahead of you, you were blazing through med school-"

"Maybe medicine isn't right for me anymore." The words shock her, but it's only verbalising what she's been unconsciously thinking for the past month. "Maybe being a doctor isn't the right thing." she amends quietly. Looking absolutely blindsided, her father can only seem to gape.

"Then… what…?"

"Nursing." It's prompt and automatic. "I can't make those life and death decisions now; you and I both realise that." She sounds so old and tired. "But I can help people. That hasn't changed."

* * *

September comes soon enough, and just maybe, she's made some progress. She and her father step on to different ships; she, on a transport to Centaurus, and he, back onto the _Enterprise_. They don't say much in the hangar, though people give them a wide berth, but there's a sense of affection in their hug and light touches on the arms and shoulders. Her father tries to speak, pauses, tries again, and then merely settles for:

"Take care of yourself, sweetheart." There's that look in his eyes again, masked slightly by his gruffness, but still there.

She smiles wryly in return, pecks him on the cheek and turns away, her own quiet words drifting back on the slight breeze.

"_I love you_." A pause. "_I will_."

She's ready to try again.


End file.
